


Stop Thinking

by Tomstinkerbell



Category: Loki (Marvel) - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ageplay, Anal, D/s, DDLG, Daddy Dom Loki, Daddy Kink, Dom!Loki, Dominance, F/M, Inorgasmia, NSFW, Sex, Submission, a little bit of ponygirl, butt plug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9080251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomstinkerbell/pseuds/Tomstinkerbell
Summary: A/N:
This work is NSFW.
It contains:  Daddy Kink, Daddy!Loki kink, DD/lg, Daddy Dom/little girl, Spanking, A little ponygirl play, Anal, D/s, Dominance, Submission, Butt plug, Inorgasmia, Sex.
Based on actual events … although not with Loki.  :)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> This work is NSFW.
> 
> It contains: Daddy Kink, Daddy!Loki kink, DD/lg, Daddy Dom/little girl, Spanking, A little ponygirl play, Anal, D/s, Dominance, Submission, Butt plug, Inorgasmia, Sex.
> 
> Based on actual events … although not with Loki. :)

The very second you so much as stretch and roll onto your side that morning, moving away from the man you’d slept tightly cuddled up against all night, you find yourself hauled back to him so that he can nibble – none too gently – at the base of your neck.

“I’ve been waiting for you to awaken, my sleeping beauty,” he purrs against your skin, making you shiver.

“Not so patiently, I take it.”

He pretends to be offended. “I will have you know that I am the very soul of patience at all times, and you should be more certain of that than any Midgardian. Did I not exhibit extreme patience a few days ago when I allowed you to keep me tied up for a full _hour_ \- while you teased me - mercilessly, I might add – before I wrestled the reins of control from your delicate little hands to put them back where they belong – in mine?” Loki presses a kiss to your palm – during which he licks it quite obscenely – all while looking at you and batting those disgustingly long lashes of his almost coquettishly, just to make you laugh.

“Oh, yeah, that’s some patient,” you return sarcastically, but you barely finish the remark before you find yourself expertly flipped onto your tummy, which elicits a slight groan from you that definitely harkens back to the after effects of last night’s rough and tumble activities have left on your sore, tired muscles.

A big, soft pillow appears beneath your head. You scrunch it into a comfortable position without questioning how it got there. Loki does not appreciate you second guessing him about things like this, so you had to learn to just go with the flow – about little magicks, anyway.

It hadn’t been easy for you to learn to do that, but you know he’d thoroughly enjoyed the many lessons he’d felt he had to teach you along the way, until you got to the point where you simply let go of what he called your “Midgardian sensibilities” and let him take care of stuff like this.

Soft, romantic music plays through no speakers you could discern, and you could smell your favorite scent – not overwhelming, but just barely on the edges of your senses – wafting through the room, which was now slightly darker than it had been, lit only by candles that are newly strewn about the room.

“Close your eyes and relax, babygirl. Don’t think or worry about anything – just let me make you feel good.” His voice is low and soothing, but never _not_ like liquid sex.

Those big hands of his sweep your hair off your back, then begin to roam freely over that which he considers to be his – and which you do, too, pretty much – massaging you using slick lotiony stuff, the scent of which always reminds you of him – with strong notes of leather and maleness – using a touch that is absolutely perfect. 

You have a distinct preference for larger men – generally even larger than Loki, frankly, broader and thicker – more towards his brother’s build – not that you’ve ever said that to him. And you’ve found that men like that, in general, have a tendency to know their own strength - but they were often a bit too . . . eager to be of assistance when giving massages. And you tended to be very sensitive, which didn’t help – so you often ended up tenser at the end of the massage than you were at the beginning, as a result of trying to avoid painful pressures.

But that isn’t so with Loki.

He always seems wonderfully attuned to you when he touches you any time at all, but especially like this, using just the right pressure and never making you feel that you want to squirm out from under his touch. He knows you carry a lot of your stress in your shoulders and spends a certain amount of time there, casually pointing out what you know are the darkened – or reddened spots – he sees on your back and sides where he’d abraded or bruised or downright bitten your otherwise milky white skin.

“I’ll remove my fingerprints from around your throat, little love, such that no one else can see them except us - ” you know that he is doing that because otherwise you will be stressed about it all day “ - but the rest shall remain. As you know, I rather like you wearing my marks, and I intend to take you out later to a club in something very skimpy, in hopes of giving more people the chance to appreciate my efforts,” he growls. “Even your gorgeous behind is still a darling, dusky pink, but I think I’ll leave that for our eyes only, too.”

Leaving off your shoulders, he works rhythmically outward from the indentation of your spine with his knowing thumbs and fingertips and palms, over your shoulder blades, your ribs, your waist, taking his time, going slowly, drawing gasps and moans of an undeniable pleasure-pain combination as he carefully works your tender muscles in a way that floods your body with sensation, even coaxing your lady bits to attention, which you would have said was an impossibility so soon after the heights he had brought you to last night, combined with the undeniable discomfort that had left you with this morning.

You had been pretty sure they were going to be out of commission for a while after that, but apparently you were wrong.

Very, very wrong.

The longer he touches you – however innocently – although very little Loki ever does seems innocent in any way – the less pain you’re feeling, and the slicker and wetter you’re getting.

Eventually, his hands reach your hips and - after a long time spent digging his fingers into the meat of your bottom, splaying your cheeks purposely, making you squeak because of it and laughing throatily at how much modesty still remains within you, despite all the things he’s done to you, he tugs you up – easing you onto your knees, then proceeds to nudge them further and further apart, until he’s sitting tailor fashioned between them, a feminine calf on either side of his legs, your bottom – all of your distinctly overheated, throbbing, in imminent danger of dripping on him, most intimate parts on display before him.

Now you’re extremely glad for the pillow, into which you can bury your brightly burning face.

You can feel him breathing on you, right _there_ , especially as he sighs and chuckles softly, obscenely, “What a truly _stupendous_ view!”

You don’t know why, but his comment – his attitude – strikes you wrong, and you make the horrid decision to try to move forward and close your legs. But all that little bit of defiance gets you is held still, right where you are – as well as a couple of very hard swats that sound as horribly painful as they are – echoing loudly around the room - and you can’t help but squawk unbecomingly.

Stilling immediately, you quickly move back into the position Loki had you in before as soon as he allows you to. 

“Much better,” he praises. “Open your eyes and look at the two things that are on the bed to your left. Tell me which one you prefer – the purple sparkly one, or the pink pony one. They’re the same size – just big enough to challenge my baby a bit.”

You’ve taken each of them before, you realize, but not often. They’re slightly larger than the plugs he’s usually uses on you, but then Loki doesn’t like things to be too easy for you, just as with the marks and the bruises. They were evidence of his rough handling, which you don’t mind at all, and he knows it. You trust him not to truly hurt you, and, in the year you’d been with him, the two times that he has ever actually hurt you were complete and total accidents – so much so that you hadn’t even remembered your safe word but he’d known you were in true distress anyway and he’s been absolutely mortified about it, swearing up and down that he’d never come near you again, as well as endearingly apologetic and caring, immediately seeing to your complete comfort and begging your forgiveness, contradicting himself completely by gathering you into his arms as if you’d break if he held you too tightly, whispering that he’d completely understand it if you no longer trusted him with the gift that is your body. 

You have absolutely no doubt that, if you actually used your safe word, he’d stop whatever he was doing before you finished the first syllable and have you cradled in his arms, asking if you were okay.

“The pink one, please.”

You see him grin out of the corner of your eye, and you know that he knew you were going to choose that one.

And he holds it there, deliberately – you know that, too – so that you can watch him spreading lubricant – some kind of special stuff he conjures up every time – you’ve never seen any kind of bottle or jar or anything – all over it. And then you see him cup his palm. His eyes catch yours, and his smile is just slightly evil, just enough to give you a chill before he places that hand right over your open slit, and it’s more than big enough encompass every single bit of it, from top to bottom, although it’s your bottom he’s concentrating on at this point, leaving a generous amount of the same slippery stuff in and around your little bottom flower.

You can’t help but gasp as he touches you intimately. Not only are you engulfed in the warmth of his touch, but in that special liquid he uses with you that never seems to get in the way, never seems to dry or gunk up or be where it’s not wanted. And you know for yourself that it’s completely odorless and tasteless, too . . . 

As he begins to explore you – every single inch, leaving no part of you unexposed, unprobed, almost as thorough as if he’s giving you a medical exam – his left hand – unbeknownst to you, because you’re too caught up in what he’s other hand is doing – rises, well above your left bottom cheek.

And then it falls, cracking hard against the generous flesh it finds there.

You cry out in surprise. “Loki, no!!”

He stops, but his hand is still cupping your most private spots, shaking his head and looking confused, a deep frown on his handsome face. “I _am_ sorry. I thought I just heard you call me Loki, but I am certain that I must have been mistaken, because you’ve been told you are no longer allowed to call me that when we are alone . . . ”

You blush, although you also know that you can feel yourself swelling against the hand that’s covering you at the same time. This is a new aspect of your relationship, one you’re a bit unsure about, and one you’re likely to forget because of that. It _is_ something that titillates you, though, and Loki is all over anything at all that excites you. 

And he’s almost too good at this in particular.

“I’m sorry . . . Daddy.”

“That’s much better, princess.”

But his praise doesn’t mitigate in the least the rise and fall of the hand that continues to sting and scourge your behind, although his other hand does a pretty good job of offsetting it. You have a feeling that he’s deliberately setting your body at war with itself, and the only one that’s winning is him – he’s thoroughly enjoying himself, watching you try to come to grips with both the stark pleasure he’s bringing to you as well as the very real pain.

You’re panting, and you couldn’t put your finger on whether it was his dancing fingers on your clit or his devastating palm on your already tender rear end that’s causing making it hard for you to take a full breath. You’re writhing, as much as he’ll allow you to, grasping the pillow, whimpering, groaning softly –

And then nothing.

He stops both abruptly, and, what seems like long, agonizing moments later but is probably only seconds in reality, you feel the slightly snubbed nose of the plug against your bottom hole.

“Do you know how much I adore doing this to you, babygirl?” you hear him crowing. “I enjoy it almost as much as I’ll enjoy watching my cock disappear into you right here -” he presses slowly but firmly.

The tip of the plug is tapered, with a bulbous middle meant to help you hold it in, then a narrower, longish neck for easy wearability over the long term, without the ability for you to easily expel it – not that you’d ever dare to do so without Lo – Daddy’s permission.

He hadn’t defined “long term” yet, but the very idea had aroused you the moment he’d mentioned it when he’d first gifted you with the two graduated sets of these plugs.

It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it did feel unusual, and – as much as you did like it - you couldn’t help but beg him not to because of the embarrassment factor that is still quite strong within you, to his great delight.

Loki absolutely _adores_ it when you blush, and even better when you beg him – he didn’t care if it was to do something or not to do something. He pretty much has a fetish for both things.

You both loved ass play, but it wasn’t something that you had done often in the past, nor was it something you did often now, so that it was always exciting and different when you did indulge.

As a result, he is truly much too big himself – at this point – for you to take that way, although he is – earnestly, you think - trying to get you to that point, and is reveling in the process. You always protest quite a bit – but he always points out that – as you do so – you are literally dripping wet, so that you’re crying wolf each time, which often earns you a spanking for doing so.

In the interests of going slowly, of course, he inserts it, then backs it off many times, forcing you to stretch further over the wider middle part each time, and when you reach the widest part, he holds it there, backing it up a little, then pushing it forward a little, making you ride that just slightly uncomfortable edge while the fingers of his other hand either tickles your clit very, very lightly – because he knows how sensitive this kind of treatment makes you and doesn’t want to allow you to cum yet – or he smacks your bum crisply, which, as you cringe away from each swat, forces you to clench around the plug, increasing your feelings of being invaded that much more.

Eventually, though, when he thinks he’s teased you enough, when you are almost too close to cumming, despite your protests, he pops it into you all the way over the rising sounds of your mewling cries, and that part of your body relaxes all at once, closing around the smaller neck of the intruder as he nestles it as far into you as it will go before twirling it around inside you several times, and playing with the pretty pink ponytail hair that hangs from it - you can feel him running his fingers through it, tugging at it gently and making you whimper.

“Mmmmmmm. Very cute, little girl. Very cute indeed. Especially coordinating, as it does, nicely, with your ever reddening ass cheeks . . .”

You can feel him looking at you, still playing with your tail, dragging it over the backs of your legs, tickling you very slightly, because you made it clear to him early on - in no uncertain terms - that you do not like to be tickled. But you know he’s just admiring his handiwork.

After long moments spent gazing at you, massaging your back a little, and simply touching you wherever it is that pleases him, he reaches beneath you to set his eager fingers on your aching clit, then begins to spank you again at the same time, more ferociously this time, building the pain and the pleasure together, expertly gauging where you are in your journey, balancing the two ends of the sensation spectrum and making them blend together within you so that you can tolerate so much more punishment from him than you would if he wasn’t gradually guiding you towards Paradise at the same time.

He doesn’t leave the backs of your thighs untouched, either, which are much more tender than your bottom, and concentrates a lot of smacks right where your behind becomes the top of your thigh, even deliberately reaching in between your thighs to catch the outside of your lips – horribly close to places you do _not_ want spanked – but enough to jar the nerve endings in that entire area as well as a pinch of fear to add to the wild maelstrom his fingers are creating, because you know that there’s really no telling what he’ll do to you.

And then he stops again, leaving you groaning and aching and panting, right on the edge, on the very cusp, reaching for the culmination that should be there, by all rights – you should have cum already by now, you think. Several times. What’s the matter with you? Are you broken? What’s happening? What’s wrong with you?!!

You’re so wrapped up in worrying that your body’s not responding just right that you don’t hear him making his preparations – which is probably just as well. You’re so deeply involved in your own thoughts, spiraling into a bad place of worry that Loki notices how tense you’ve become.

And he brings his open palm up, sharply, between your legs, on your wide open, vulnerable cleft, his fingertips hitting your clit each time as he scolded sharply, “ _STOP THINKING_! You have been _forbidden_ to think, young lady, and it is naughty for you to disobey me and do so.”

Crying softly, when you hadn’t been up till now, at the sudden, stark roll back of the intense bliss you’d been drowning in up to this point, you respond tearfully, “Yes, Daddy.”

All trace of anger and sternness gone, he reaches out to pat your back, saying, “This next part will be very intense, lovely, so want you to wear your bit for me. I know how it soothes you to be able to clamp down on something sometimes when Daddy is inspecting you very closely.”

As he is saying it, the bit appears in your mouth. It’s pink leather wrapped, because that is what you prefer, but its core is softish, so that when you clamp your teeth down on it – and you know you will – it won’t hurt them – in fact, it feels quite satisfying to do so. It’s not very elaborate, quite simply held in place – probably by magic, too – but also by a pink leather strap around your head, pulled quite tight, so that the bit sets well back in your mouth, as it would in the case of a real pony.

You’re somewhat preoccupied with it when it’s first there – you don’t wear it that often – but then you hear a very distinct click and buzzing sound, and know exactly what it is. You can’t help it – you lunge away from him, but of course he catches you easily before you really get any length away from him at all, blistering your backside again, only this time without the offsetting fingers.

The vibrator is one of the enormous old ones – a big Hitachi one with the huge head that would vibrate you, him and everyone within a three mile radius into oblivion – and he adores it, because it – like him – pretty much gives you no choice but to cum, within about three seconds of having had it laid up against your clit.

He’s gotten pretty good at using it, though, and can delay it a bit longer than he used to be able to – if he chooses. But it’s incredibly powerful, and he’s much too enamored of using it on you.

A blindfold covers your eyes suddenly, and you whimper, but his hand pats your bottom gently and he “shh-shh-shh’s” you soothingly. Your hands are tugged out from under the pillow to be folded across your back, held there by nothing more than his will to keep them there.

You hear him sigh happily.

“Oh, my darling girl, there are no words for how incredibly beautiful you are – always – but especially when you are so deliciously vulnerable to me like this.”

And then you hear him pick up the vibrator, and you brace yourself for what you know is to cum.

You.

Hard.

And uncontrollably.

And as many times as _he_ prefers, not you.

But you’re wrong.

Instead, it’s as if he starting all over again.

He brings the vibrator down – not on your clit, but on your shoulders, massaging the last of the aches from them, then down your sides, down your arms or around them, over your middle and lower back, rubbing and relaxing and reducing you to nothing more than a mindless puddle of goo, again.

A still throbbing, still aching puddle, but he’s definitely managed to divert your focus.

Mostly.

Then he puts it down. It’s not turned off, but it’s on the bed next to him.

He fingers two of the sorer spots on your bottom – one on each cheek, on the underside, very near where each becomes cleft.

“Someone got bitten pretty hard here, didn’t she?”

You nod into the darkness.

“I wonder why someone did that to you, hmmm?”

Knowing he wanted an answer, you reply, a little hesitantly, as you were apt when you were little, “So I would know whose I am.”

“And whose are you, little miss?” His voice, coming to you out of the black, is even more potent than it usually is.

“Yours, Daddy.”

You can hear the great and true satisfaction and pride when he answers, “Exactly, my love.”

The buzzing gets much louder quickly, and all of a sudden, with no preparation at all, you feel him part your nether lips wide, fitting the big, vibrating head against your tiny bit – dwarfing it completely - carefully adjusting it based on your squeaks and squeals and deep moans – then leaving it there – kept in place by magic, so that his hands are both free.

One of them goes to the end of your ponytail and begins to tug the pink plug out slowly, pulling it easily to the point where the bulge begins, and beyond, forcing you to stretch open around it – to its widest point - only to allow it to close seconds later as he pushed it back in. 

Rinse, repeat.

While his other hand delivers one of the worst spankings you’ve ever endured from him – but you don’t really feel it as such, because of the endorphins that are busily tidal waving through your body.

You are hurtling towards the edge – you can see it from where you are – you are almost there . . . 

Almost . . . there 

 

Almost . . . th -

 

Almost . . . 

But for some reason – you don’t know why – this has never happened to you in your life, ever – the orgasm will _not_ begin for you. It’s as if you’re held back by an invisible hand, just one or two steps away from it, even though this – everything he’s done for you - is a combination of everything you love – he’s touched every possible nerve and some you didn’t even know you owned. He’s done everything right. And you know you’re right _there_ . . . within a hair’s breadth of it – a cunt hair, of course . . . 

But as hard as you try, as much as you want it – and you do – you can’t quite get there.

Even before you can snap your fingers – which is your safe word when you can’t say your safe word - everything stops. He removes the blindfold and bit, the invisible restraints on your hands, and the plug, putting a gentle hand on your back, although you can feel that he’s tense with concern for you, asking, “Are you all right, dearest?”

To your horror, you’re sobbing, not even bothering to move out of position, although you suppose you could now.

“I can’t - I can’t seem to cum!!! I keep trying – I should – I should – I should be on my seventh or eighth or fifteenth with you by now!”

Loki’s hand rubs your lower back, clarifying carefully, “But you’re not hurting or cramping and you feel all right otherwise? No problems beyond that?”

“No, S-Sir,” you reply, a little warily.

“You’re sure?”

You nod. “Y-yes, Sir.”

All of a sudden, everything is back in place except your arms, which are by your head. “Well, then, I see no problem at all, except that you are being naughty in two ways, my dear. First you are _thinking_ again –“ He smacks your bottom twice in what you thought was probably close to as hard as he could –“ which you have been expressly told _not_ to do.” He grabs the end of the pony plug and pulls it all the way out, then presses it – quickly – all the way back in – five times – leaving you gasping – but practically contracting, too – “And secondly . . .” you wait a long moment, and he whispers conspiratorially, “you are assuming, _very incorrectly_ , I might add, that this is all for _your_ amusement. I would remind you of something I said when we first became lovers and you were very nervous and tense around me, so much so that your pleasure completely eluded you. There is no timetable here, sweetheart. There is no wrong way to do this, nor any bad outcome as long as we are both enjoying ourselves.”

Suddenly, you find yourself flipped onto your back, arms stretched over your head and held there. The blindfold, bit, and plug are all back on or in you, and then, without warning, so is he, all at once, as you can feel him looming over you, and him doing so in the darkness is even more intimidating than when you can see him. All you can feel of him, really, is his big hard cock forcefully taking your cunt, stretching you open around him - even more than usual, it seems, because of the presence of the plug - swelling within you as he always did, then dragging himself slowly, powerfully in and out of you as he holds the head of the vibrator against your clit, saying in an off-hand way, “There is no schedule of events in my mind, and I do not want there to be one in yours, either. I am not mentally ticking off the seconds until you cum because this is drudgery for me. Indeed, you are more in danger of me confining you to our bed for years on end than I think you realize. No one has intrigued me as you have in centuries – our carnal tastes coincide almost eerily, and that makes me constantly hungry for every aspect of making love with you – not merely the culmination, whether it be mine or yours.”

You know he’s still talking, but what he’s doing is _exactly_ what you needed, and you can’t really listen to him anymore.

And he can sense that.

“Cum for me, baby.” He leans over you, pistoning his hips into you as he gathers your legs around him. The blindfold disappears, and you are staring right up into his eyes. “Now, darling, or I’ll whip your bottom raw with my –“

But it wasn’t your bottom that got shredded.

It was your voice, after all of that buildup.

All you can remember is screaming at the top of your lungs – one of the few times in your life you’ve actually done that, knowing he won’t allow anyone but him to hear you do so - and him doing absolutely nothing about it but his level best to make you scream longer and louder. You can see him as he stares intently down at you with that self satisfied look, not allowing himself to release until he is certain that you have had more than your fill – and then filling you with himself, too.

Afterwards, as you try unsuccessfully to recover, everything magically disappears and the two of you are magically cleaned up in an instant. You are held tenderly – tightly – in his arms, under the warm covers, his hands roaming gently over you, as if to test for himself that you’re truly all right, even though he knows that – lost voice or not, when you cum that hard, you are often somewhat withdrawn, if clingy, at the same time.

You’re not sure that you are all right, although you know nothing’s really wrong, except that you broke your voice, which he is terribly smug about. But you also know that you kind of blacked out at the end, and that he knows that, too, and you’re pretty sure he’s going to be impossible to live with for quite a while now because of those two things.

“Is there anything I can get you or do for you, sweetness?” he asks solicitously, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“No, thank you,” you answer hoarsely, knowing he means “anything” quite literally. If you asked for a hundred carat ruby or a tiger cub, there’d be one on the bed with you instantaneously.

He smiles broadly down at you, and you know it’s ‘cause of your voice, so you do what anyone would do when faced with such unmitigated smugness – you hit him. “Stop that!”

Innocence doesn’t play with him at all - not that he doesn’t try - but he’s serious again quickly enough. “You are sure you’re all right, though?”

You’ll never tire of hearing the genuine concern in his voice when he asks you questions like that, and snuggle closer to him. “Yes, I’m fine. Or I will be. I’ll have to say it’s laryngitis at work, though.”

“Chicken,” he teases.

You snort, looking up into those bright, amused eyes of his. “Yeah, right. What could I possibly say to them if not that? That I’ve come down with a virulent case of Loki-gitis?” 

He laughs at that idea, and you bask in the sound of it, wishing you could make him laugh more often.

“And then they’d want to know how I got it, to make sure they couldn’t get it . . . ”

Loki frowned a bit, hugging you to him hard. “Hmmmm. Well, _that_ is not going to happen. You could say that your Daddy –“

You raise your eyebrow at him with a very dubious look.

He hastily revises, “Oh, well, then your lover made you cum –“

Higher.

“Uh . . . spanked - ”

It’s at your hairline by now.

Loki clears his throat, grinning at you unrepentantly when he teases, “Well, then, I would suggest that you hack and cough a bit when you tell them about your terrible laryngitis.”


End file.
